There is an ancient moral
Whose pith I thus convey, —
Who slumbers on his laurel
Was vanquished yesterday.

Though greener fields may brighten
Than yet the sun hath known;
Though whiter harvests whiten
Than ever seed were sown;

Above the breast of summer
The thunder-bolt may burst;
And around the sheaves of harvest
The winter gales are nursed.

Life's loftiest triumph trembles
Beneath the lightest march, —
Till Death, that carves the keystone,
Writes Felix on the arch.